


Far More Lovely

by LoverCrowley (ShadowScale)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale falls in love - or maybe just realizes he's been there for a while, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Set after the church scene, but not detailed because uhhh nah, foot washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowScale/pseuds/LoverCrowley
Summary: Crowley gives Aziraphale a lift home after the church is destroyed, allows the angel to tend to his not-quite burns.A 1941 word fic that takes place in 1941.





	Far More Lovely

“Lift home?” Crowley heads for the Bentley and reaches the driver side door before he realizes Aziraphale is still standing where he’d left him. He looks at him, no more than a silhouette against the smoking remains of the church, barely visible by the light of the burning wreckage. “Angel,” He calls out. “Are you coming?”

Aziraphale shakes himself out of his daze and scrambles after him, stepping carefully through the rubble. “Yes, sorry, thank you.”

Crowley settles himself inside the car and listens to the wail of the air raid sirens, of the crashing of other bombs, each successive one farther and farther away but no less destructive. He hates to think that a commendation will be presented to him for all this, but he knows he will receive one anyway. Knows he will plaster on a fake smile and offer some half-hearted banter about humans and their souls. Knows that as soon as he is alone again, he will crumple the commendation and toss it over towards the wastebasket without another thought. Knows he will sit and ignore his own tears, tears not for himself but for humanity, for the things they come up with and inflict on each other, things worse than demons might invent. Knows that there have been wars before and that there will be still more in the future but the familiarity will not dull the pain or increase the understanding of why.

Aziraphale slides into the seat beside him. Crowley knows he is suffering too, being around all this hurt. He wonders vaguely if the angel can manage to feel any love at all during a war, or if it is choked out by everything else, by all the hatred and the fear and the pain. He wonders how much the of devotion and faith the angel shows for the ineffable plan is real and how much is faked, faked for simplicity, faked for conformity, faked as a defense against thoughts and questions that might otherwise cause him to Fall the same way Crowley did.

He can probably feel love anyway, Crowley decides. Love is supposed to be stronger than just about anything, after all. Maybe stronger than everything. A part of him wishes he could sense it still as he once did, as Aziraphale does now. It would certainly answer more than a few questions.

Crowley decides he’ll never know how much the angel is faking, and leaves it at that.

Crowley drives in silence for a time, glancing every now and again at his passenger. He decides that love cannot dull pain either, but it can make it more manageable, bearable.

Aziraphale clutches the books against his chest as if he might lose them after all. Or perhaps as if they were a very lovely gift he should hate to let go of for even a minute. 

The angel tells himself his heart is still beating hard because they had just been in a terribly frightful situation. A gun pointed right at his face, a bomb hurtling down at them. Certain corporeal destruction and a lot of paperwork if not for – he glances sideways at Crowley’s profile, looks away. He tries again to convince himself that his heart is only hammering from the danger. Nothing else. No other reason a surge of adrenaline should be coursing through him. Ridiculous. 

Still, he can’t quite make himself believe that, can’t make himself ignore that it had been beating at a perfectly normal pace before and that the thumping had only started up when Crowley handed him the books, fingers brushing his own just slightly, a touch of warmth on a cold and sad night.

“Are they always unguarded?” Crowley asks, derailing his train of thought.

“What are?”

“Those basins of holy water. Is it like that in all churches? Or had those damn Nazis just shooed off the normal security?”

“Oh, not this again Crowley. I thought I was clear before whe-”

“I’m just _asking_. Seems funny to me is all, leaving it out where anyone could just go and splash about in it if they wanted. Or grab a cup full and take it home. Urgh.” Crowley shifts, crossing one leg so his foot rests against his thigh. He lets go of the steering wheel to rub at it. Crowley doesn’t do it to distract Aziraphale and keep him from lecturing him about the dangers of the substance, but it works that way anyway.

“Wh- What are you doing?! Watch the road!”Aziraphale sits up and his hands flutter as if to grab something to brace himself, despite the fact that the car remains perfectly steady.

“It’s fine, we’re not going to hit anything.” He sets one hand on the wheel anyway, hoping that’s enough to placate the angel. “I don’t suppose you have any ice at the bookshop do you? Or… aloe, or something?” He flexes his foot, wiggles his toes.

“I’m sure I do but whatever for…? Oh.” He realizes, frowns. “Oh, are they badly hurt?”

“Not so badly, but walking around won’t be the easiest thing for a day or two.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, brow furrowed. “I’ll see what I can do when we get there.” He adds after a moment, “You could have stood on a pew, you know? It’s only the ground that’s consecrated.” 

“I didn’t know that, actually. I’ll keep it in mind next time.” 

\---

Crowley makes a beeline for the couch as soon as he is inside and a moment later Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him. Crowley shifts his legs away cautiously, blinks down in surprise.

“What are you doing?”He asks, confused at the display.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to see if there’s anything I can do about your feet. Just hold still. Hold _still_ ,” he repeats, when Crowley jerks a little at his initial touch. With exceeding care, Aziraphale takes one of his feet by the ankle and examines it.

Crowley watches him carefully, sucks in a sharp breath when the angel brushes his fingers gently over the angry red sole of one foot before reaching for the other.

“Well they aren’t actually burned luckily, no blisters or anything, just irritated. Probably wouldn’t even be that if you had worn actual _shoes_ [1],” Aziraphale glances at him reproachfully. “But in any case you’ll be fine in a day or two, as you said.” Aziraphale leans back onto his heels, looks up at Crowley more fully.

The demon has removed his accessories leaving his head uncovered, his eyes unhidden, and Aziraphale can’t help but notice that he’s again changed his hairstyle to fit the times. A clean side part, hair slicked back, somehow unmussed by the hat he’d been wearing earlier. Crowley stares back coolly, his expression a turbid pool – anything could be below surface, you just couldn’t see it, couldn’t guess at its depth.

“I’ll uh, go grab a little tub and some water so I can wash your feet for you,” Aziraphale says, standing. “That should make them feel a little better at least.”

“Er, that’s not necessary, I can take of them myself,” Crowley says, shaking his head slightly and starting to rise from his seat, wincing just slightly when he puts pressure on his feet again. 

“No, I insist,” Aziraphale says firmly, pushing Crowley back down by the shoulder. “It’s the least I can do really, after all the trouble you went through to… well to get me out of trouble.” He turns and exits before Crowley can get another word in.

When he returns, Crowley is flipping through a copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ that had been sitting on the coffee table[2]. 

“Is he based off you, do you think?” Crowley waves the book loosely, taps the cover with one finger. 

“Dorian?” Aziraphale scoffs and makes a face at him. “I can tell you haven’t read it.” He sets a basin of water on the ground before Crowley and kneels again.

Crowley rolls his eyes and tosses the book back towards the table where it lands with a quiet thunk and slides a few inches. “I have, thank you very much. I meant his physical appearance only, not the lack of morality. _Finely curved scarlet lips, frank blue eyes, crisp gold hair_.” The demon makes a show of leaning forward and inspecting Aziraphale’s appearance from a few different angles. “Seems like a dead ringer to me. And you did spend some time with the man if I recall.” He lifts one hand to brush through the angel’s soft curls, but thinks better of it at the last moment, letting his hand fall back against the couch cushion.

The angel ducks his head down, hiding his face slightly from the heavy gaze. He nudges Crowley’s feet as a cue to set them into the basin. “Dorian is also described as having a look of boyish youth,” Aziraphale says primly.

“Ah, that’s true. And your days of youth and innocence were long gone when you met Wilde, if they ever existed to start.” Crowley leans back and laughs to himself as if at a private joke. “No, you’re no Dorian. You’re far more lovely.”

Aziraphale is glad his face is already turned down and away, otherwise Crowley might have caught the flash of pleasure that crossed his features at the compliment. “I think some incense at the church must have gone to your head and made you delirious.”

“You think I’m delirious? You’re the one washing the feet of a demon, you are. No symbolism there, hm? Nothing you’re trying to tell me?”

Aziraphale goes quiet. Crowley lets it go, doesn’t say another word as the angel pours warm water over his feet. He pats them dry with a soft cloth and wraps them loosely in gauze. He sits back on his heels again. “Is that better?”

Crowley nods. “Wonderful.”

They both stand, motionless for a moment, frozen except for the rise and fall of their chests and the blink of their lids as they regarded one another. Aziraphale tenses when Crowley steps closer. His hands become fists and his breath halts in his lungs. He feels a strange sense of disappointment when the demon only reaches past him, moving to collect his things from the table behind him.

Crowley stills again once he’s settled his hat and glasses back onto himself, studies Aziraphale’s face looking for the answer to some unspoken question. He smiles a little, satisfied at whatever it is that he sees, whatever it is that Aziraphale’s look tells him.

“I suppose I should get going,” Crowley says.

At the same time, Aziraphale says “Would you like to-”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, tips his head to one side, listening.

Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth a few times then finally gets out, “Nevermind. Yes, I’m sure you have things to get to.” He fidgets with his ring as the demon moves away. “Crowley?”

“Mm?” He pauses mid-step, turns back to him.

“I am grateful, for your help tonight. It-” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back, glancing between Crowley and some distant point off to the side. “It means a lot to me.”

Crowley smiles. “I know.”

Scarlet lips, blue eyes, and gold hair linger in his mind as he leaves.

\---

[1] Crowley had only shaped his feet to look like shoes. ((Idea based on Crowley’s description in the book))

[2] Not a first edition. Although Aziraphale did have a first edition of it, but he would never leave it out where anyone who wandered into the shop could get their hands on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback? I'd love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Also, yes, I did specifically write to get the word count to match the year.
> 
> If you'd like to chat, you can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.lovercrowley.tumblr.com)


End file.
